


Happy Birthday, John

by sunshinefemme



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, M/M, Riding Crop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinefemme/pseuds/sunshinefemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: Happy Birthday, John<br/>Fandom: BBC Sherlock<br/>Pairing: John/Sherlock<br/>Rating: NC-17<br/>Word count: 1,497<br/>Warnings: Complete and utter PWP with some random humor thrown in; M/M smut; anal sex; use of riding crop; Sherlock’s arse; self-indulgent crap</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday, John

John is not expecting a birthday present from Sherlock when he gets home. In fact, he’s not sure Sherlock is even aware of his birthday. It seems irrelevant when compared to solving mysteries and whatever requires the presence of a disembodied head in their fridge.

     If he had been expecting a present, it certainly wouldn’t be this: Sherlock, clad in impossibly tight leather trousers, his favorite purple shirt unbuttoned, brandishing his riding crop, a blindfold, a string of condoms, a pair of handcuffs, and a bottle of lube. John feels his mouth become a desert.

     “Happy birthday, John,” says the detective in a low growl, his pink lips twisted into a smirk that could rival Lucifer’s. “I’ve deduced your attraction to me and would like to offer my services as a gift. Feel free to take advantage of the situation as you see fit.”

     John hovers in the doorway, clutching desperately at the large paper bag in his hands. “Let me just… um… Groceries.” He maneuvers gingerly across the kitchen, his eyes never leaving Sherlock as he puts away the food. When he’s done, John takes a step toward his flatmate and contemplates the endless opportunities being thrust before him.

     “I think,” says John slowly, “that I should very much like to blindfold you, and then swat that lovely riding crop of yours across your bare backside until the flesh is raw and stinging, then bathe every inch of you with my tongue until you’re moaning and begging for me to fuck you. Is that acceptable?”

     Sherlock visibly stiffens, then swallows, his eyes unfocused. “Yes. God, yes.”

     John gathers the items from Sherlock’s arms and carries them to the coffee table in front of the sofa. He contemplates them silently before grabbing the blindfold and riding crop and turning toward his flatmate.

     “Come here.”

     Sherlock nods and steps into the other room, his fingers twitching in anticipation. John holds the riding crop in his teeth as he wraps the blindfold tightly around Sherlock’s eyes.

     “I won’t handcuff you unless you disobey me. Understood?”

     Sherlock nods again, worrying at his lips with his teeth and tongue in a way that makes John’s face flush.

     “As much as I adore those trousers you’ve got on, I’m afraid they have to go,” says John with a sinister smirk that Sherlock can probably hear in his voice. Sherlock hesitates, long fingers hovering just above the waistband of his leather slacks. “Go on, then.”

     The purple shirt is shrugged off with ease, but the trousers take some deft maneuvering. John is pleased to notice Sherlock’s lack of underwear.

     “How do you want me?” asks the detective breathlessly.

     The doctor guides Sherlock wordlessly to the fireplace where his skull resides, and he grips the mantle tightly. John is stunned and more than a little turned on by this unexpected display of obedience. The riding crop feels thick and powerful in his hand, and he notes with some interest that the intermittent tremor has not returned.

     “I want you to count each strike for me, Sherlock.”

     The dark-haired man nods, but John does not raise his arm for the first blow quite yet. Instead he places the tip of the riding crop against the small of Sherlock’s back, and gently caresses up his spine. Sherlock’s reaction is surprising, and satisfying in ways that John would not have expected; his back arches deliciously, punctuated by a series of sharp gasps that are most pronounced when the riding crop slides against the nape of his neck. A quick lean to the left tells John that Sherlock is at least as aroused as he is.

     _Oh._ _I need to make him do that again._

     John experimentally threads his left hand through Sherlock’s hair, gripping just hard enough to control the tilt of the detective’s head. John pushes forward, and the feel of soft lips against pale skin makes Sherlock quiver against the fireplace.

     “God, Sherlock,” John murmurs against his neck, his right hand fumbling to unbutton his own jeans without dropping the riding crop.

     “A-are you, um,” says Sherlock breathlessly, “are you going to use that on me any time soon?”

     “Bit distracted by these noises you’re making.”

     “Just wait ‘til you hear me scream.”

     John’s mouth goes dry, his posture returning to military form almost imperceptibly as he removes his hand from Sherlock’s hair. Something in the way Sherlock is teasing him makes John want to take control.

     “Assume the position,” says John without a drop of humor. Sherlock laughs anyway. That is, until the loop of leather at the end of the riding crop comes into sharp contact with the delicate flesh of Sherlock’s arse. This sound, this quick and brutal smack plus Sherlock half-gasp half-moan, is quite possibly the most exquisite thing John has ever heard.

     “Shit,” mutters the brunet, and John imagines those crystalline eyes glazing over behind the blindfold. “Oh. One.”

     John transfers the riding crop to his dominant hand, using the right one to reach below the waistband of his jeans and begin stroking himself lazily. “How you manage to be so infuriatingly devious, yet obedient at the same time, I will never understand.”

     “You get off on it,” Sherlock purrs. John brings the riding crop down again, this time on the opposite cheek. “Ah- two.”

     “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

     “Maybe-eeeee. Three. Four. Fuck! F-five. Ahhh. Suh… ss. Sev… seven…”

     Sherlock is shaking now, his breath ragged, and John can feel the heat emanating from his reddening skin. As much as he’d like to continue whipping Sherlock into a frenzy, however, there are other endeavors begging for his attention. And after all, this is John’s birthday, not Sherlock’s.

     “What did I say I’d like to do after I whipped you?”

     “Um. Lick me all over until I’m begging for it.”

     “Mm.” John thinks about the pressing matter in his trousers. “Don’t think I can wait that long.” Sherlock groans, thrusting his raw backside toward the doctor’s groin.

     “Would it help if I begged for it now?”

     John tears off his t-shirt with far less grace than he is willing to acknowledge. “Impatient little bugger, aren’t you?”

     Sherlock’s legs come apart, and John can tell it’s taking quite a lot of effort for him not to remove his blindfold and turn away from the fireplace. “Fuck me, John. Please.”

     John exhales slowly from his nose, shoving his jeans and underwear down his legs while attempting to keep himself composed. He remembers the condoms and lube on the coffee table, and takes a moment to prepare himself. Sherlock makes an indignant noise, and John notices the muscles of his thighs and calves flexing in anticipation.

     “Have you done this before?” asks John urgently.

     “Once or twice. Don’t go all silly doctor face on me.”

     “You must be turned on if your vocabulary has diminished to that of Lestrade’s.”

     “Don’t insult me, youaaahhhh what what _is_ that?”

     “That would be my finger.”

     “No, I mean… ahh. That. Do that again.”

     John can’t help but grin as he stimulates Sherlock’s prostate. “You’ve never felt this before?”

     “Apparently not. Can you do that when you’re inside me?”

     John’s heart skips a beat. “I can try.”

     “In that case, what are you waiting for?”

     John needs no further encouragement. Making sure that Sherlock is still braced against the mantle, John grasps his hips and pushes his lubricated self inside Sherlock with an agonizing slowness.

     “Oh. _Ohhhh._ John, that feels. Wow.”

     “Yeah.” John breathes. _Happy birthday indeed._

     Sherlock’s previous sexual encounters must have been disappointing, judging from the way he writhes beneath the older man.

     “Fucking… move, John. Mmm, just like that.” Part of John wishes he’d thought to gag the detective, but another part of him is just as turned on by Sherlock’s incessant rambling as he is by the smell of his arousal. He’s never noticed it in another person before, but something about Sherlock in the heat of the moment is positively intoxicating.

     John’s cock feels deliciously engulfed by Sherlock’s tight heat, and finally his careful military poise is completely shattered by the immensity of this carnal pleasure. He allows himself to let go and embrace this moment for what it is; he’s shagging his flatmate against the fireplace, mercilessly gripping the pink, stinging flesh of his arse as he thrusts into him, and there is nothing but perfection in the act.

     “John, I need- your hand.” Of course.

     It doesn’t take Sherlock long after the first few pulls of his cock before he’s shouting obscenities at his pet skull and dripping against John’s hand. John manages to last a bit longer, but not much. As he scrambles to pull out of Sherlock in time to come against the small of his back, John is vaguely aware of a strange noise coming from the brunet.

     “Are… are you humming the birthday song under your breath?”

     Sherlock turns, pulling the blindfold off with a smirk. “I felt it was appropriate.”

     “Well, you’ve rubbish timing.”


End file.
